The Shape of Night(35)
“Why do you ask?”
“The Seaglass Gallery downtown has an opening reception tonight. It’s to celebrate their new exhibition of local artists. Two of my paintings are in the show, if you’d like to drop by.”
“I had no idea you’re an artist.”
“So now you know something about me. I’m not saying I’m Picasso or anything, but painting does keep me out of trouble.”
“I just might stop in tonight and take a look.”
“And while you’re there, you can look at Ned’s bird sculptures.”
“You mean Ned, my carpenter?”
“He’s more than just a carpenter. He’s been working with wood all his life and his carvings are sold in galleries in Boston.”
“He never once mentioned to me he’s an artist.”
“Lots of people in this town have hidden talents.”
And secrets, too, I think as I walk out of his office. I wonder how he’d react if he learned my secrets. If he knew the reason why I left Boston. If he knew what happened to me in the turret room of Brodie’s Watch. For nights I’ve been waiting, longing, for Captain Brodie’s return. Perhaps this is part of the punishment he doles out, forcing me to wonder if he will ever reappear.
I walk down a street that’s crowded with summer tourists, none of whom can possibly imagine the thoughts cycling in my head. The red velvet curtain. The leather cuffs. The hiss of my silk dress ripping open. Suddenly I halt, sweating in the heat, my pulse roaring in my ears. Is this what madness feels like, this wild caroming between shame and lust?
I think of the letter written a century and a half ago by a lovesick teenager named Ionia. She too had been obsessed with Jeremiah Brodie. What sordid rumors swirled around him, leading Ionia’s mother to forbid any contact? While he was alive, how many women did he bring to his turret?
Surely I’m not the only one.
* * *
—
When I step into Branca Property Sales and Management, I find Donna at her desk and talking on the telephone as usual. She gives me an I’ll be right with you wave and I sit down in the waiting area to peruse the photos of properties displayed on the wall. Farmhouses surrounded by verdant fields. Seaside cottages. A village Victorian with gingerbread trim. Did any of them come with resident ghosts or secret rooms furnished for scandalous pleasures?
“Everything okay up at the house, Ava?” Donna has hung up the phone and now sits with hands primly folded on her desk, the ever-polished businesswoman in a blue blazer.
“It’s all going great,” I answer.
“I just received Ned’s final bill for the carpentry work. I guess he and Billy are finished with the repairs.”
“They did a wonderful job. The turret looks beautiful.”
“And now you have the house all to yourself.”
Not exactly. For a moment I’m silent, trying to formulate a question that doesn’t sound completely bizarre. “I, um, wanted to get in touch with the woman who lived in the house before me. You said her name was Charlotte? I don’t know her last name.”
“Charlotte Nielson. Why do you need to reach her?”
“The cookbook isn’t the only thing she left behind in the house. I found a silk scarf in the bedroom closet. It’s very expensive, Hermès, and I’m sure she’d want it back. I have a FedEx account and I’d be happy to send it to her, if you’ll just give me her address. And her email, too.”
“Of course, but I’m afraid Charlotte hasn’t been answering her emails lately. I wrote her days ago about that cookbook, and she still hasn’t responded.” Donna swivels around to check her computer. “Here’s her address in Boston: 4318 Commonwealth Ave, Apartment 314,” she reads aloud and I jot it down on a scrap of paper. “It must be a pretty serious crisis.”
I look up. “Excuse me?”
“After she left, she sent me a note that there was a family crisis, and she apologized for breaking the lease. She’d already paid the rent through the end of August, so the owner let it go. Still, it was abrupt. And a little strange.”
“She didn’t tell you what her crisis was?”
“No. All I got was the note in the mail. When I drove up to check on the house, she’d already packed up and left. Must have been in quite a hurry.” Donna gives me her cheery Realtor smile. “But on the bright side, the house was available for you to rent.”
I find this story of a tenant abruptly fleeing Brodie’s Watch more than merely odd; I find it alarming, but I don’t tell her this as I stand up to leave.
I’m at the door when Donna says: “I didn’t realize you already had connections in town.”
I turn back to her. “Connections?”
“You and Ben Gordon. You’re friends, aren’t you? I saw you together in the café.”
“Oh, that.” I shrug. “I got a little dizzy in the heat that day, and he was worried I’d faint. He seems like a nice man.”
“He is. He’s nice to everyone,” she adds and the subtext is obvious: Don’t think you’re special. Judging by the chilly look she gives me, Dr. Ben Gordon is a subject best avoided between us in the future.